the archer/whiterun

[tinker, tailor, soldier, courier]

Faendal fidgeted. He couldn't quite help it – the dunmer housecarl had a glare that could shrivel the balls off a mammoth.

"You were at Helgen?"

"Er...not so much, no." The frigid expression somehow grew more frightening. How was that even possible? "T-t-that is to say, ah, we have survivors back home – home back in, uh, Riverwood. Two. Two survivors. Our own Hadvar and a stranger. Called her Eir, I think. That is, Hadvar told me – uh. Ahem." Meekly, he produced a letter from his satchel. "Hadvar wrote a report...?" She took the proffered letter, and Faendal tried not to sag visibly with relief. Lucky for Faendal, Hadvar had always had a firm head on his shoulders. He'd written up a full report – crisp, to the point, just like a Legionnaire – and told him to take it up to Whiterun. Faendal could see that soldiering had been good for him, though Sigrid would never agree.

Irileth's crimson eyes never left the paper as she spoke. "And why have you been sent in place of the survivors?" The bosmer shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, they're in, uh, no condition. For the road, I mean." Not a lie, technically. Hadvar probably could travel, but Sigrid had demanded he stay until the limp was gone in its entirety. Besides, Faendal had a feeling the city he made for would be Solitude, not Whiterun. The lad was chomping at the bit already. As for the girl...

He'd never forget that scream. He'd heard it clear from his side of Riverwood; her body had recovered well enough in the days gone by, but...

No, the girl was not fit for travel. Was not fit for much of anything, actually.

The nightblade nodded curtly. "You've done well, citizen. Report to Avenicci for your reward." Faendal saluted her smartly, though she couldn't see it through the page, and strode away as briskly as possible without outright running. Irileth was just frightening, especially since her idea of a greeting was to start with the tip of her weapon. Sweet merciful Divines.

He very nearly ran over Proventus as he stepped from the dais. "Pardon!" The steward gave him a vague, distracted smile as he hurried up the steps to the throne.

"Or – okay, I guess I'll just wait for you here then." Faendal was not going up those steps again. Not while Irileth was there, at least.

There was a small child glaring up at him from the table. Faendal stared back, mostly for lack of anything better to do.

"It's rude to stare," he said. The child's answering smirk was markedly unpleasant.

"Only wondering if you enjoyed the taste of father's boots." Hey! Why that little - ! Before Faendal could give the brat a well-deserved thrashing – well, tongue-lashing, since he was obviously the spawn of their mighty jarl – Balgruuf's voice boomed through the hall.

"Enough! I will not sit idly by while a dragon burns down my hold! Irileth, send in the militia. Proventus -" Whatever Balgruuf had said to Proventus was too quiet to be heard, even with his bosmer ears. Regardless, the effect was that he looked as though he'd bitten into something foul as he stalked down the steps; Faendal didn't really want to be the target of that look, but he did have to get going, and traveling – even on foot – did cost coin, mostly for things like food and lodging. Faendal wasn't stupid enough to camp out less than two days out from Helgen. That was like begging to be eaten. Or mugged.

"Ahem. Excuse me? I was told I should talk to you about, you know, my courier fee -" reward, actually, but courier fee just sounded less grasping, "- and I do have to get going, you know, the wood isn't going to chop itself and all -" Proventus stopped cold. Turned. Looked the wood elf up and down as though assessing a barnyard milk cow. Suddenly, the old man smiled, and cold sweat broke out over the back of Faendal's neck. He started to back away. Slowly. "On second thought, you know what? You can forget about that courier fee. I mean, Jarl Balgruuf's sending militia down to Riverwood, and that's reward enough for me, you see? So I'll be going now. Have a good -" Proventus' smile only grew wider.

"Nonsense! You've provided a service to your Jarl, and ought to be rewarded. Come with me." The old man had a shockingly strong grip. The bosmer could have escaped – probably – but not without knocking the steward right over onto his unctuous ass. Likely, they would have then dragged his ass down to the jail and fined him for his troubles. No, thank you.

And so Faendal pasted on a smile and allowed himself to be steered by the elbow like some dumb sheep to the slaughter.

Shockingly, Proventus lead him to the armoury. Whistling, the old Imperial scanned over rows of well-oiled, well-kept leather armour. "Ah! This one ought to do." He held it up over Faendal's torso. "Yes, this should fit, don't you think?"

"Ah..."

"Of course it does. Much better than...whatever that is you're wearing."

"Um..." This was getting awkward. Clearly it was time to make things immeasurably worse. "I was thinking more like...coin. You know, septims. Like for every other courier in Skyrim."

And Proventus smiled. It was frightening to behold. The old Imperial clasped his hands together, as though to rub them together, but somehow managed to refrain; Faendal guts seemed to clench. "Of course you would. But you see, there is no prescribed reward for reporting in a dragon attack. It's not in the budget – I'm sure you understand, with this war and all – but," and then he really did rub his hands together. Gleefully. Gleefully! "we do have some bounties that are rewarded with coin – and I have just the job for a mer of your obvious skill!" He gestured to the unstrung bow slung over Faendal's back.

Oh no. Before Faendal could even protest, Avenicci was hustling him up the steps and into a set of rooms. "Wait-" Faendal sputtered, trying to disentangle his elbow from the old man's implacable grip, "I didn't mean – I mean to say, I only hunt with this bow – I mean, animals, I hunt animals -!" Proventus didn't bat an eye.

"Of course. But you see, I have quite the eye for these things. You would be the perfect mer for the job – and it's a good chance to break in this beauty!" He slapped the leather armour in Faendal's arms. Faendal hadn't even known he'd taken it – when had he draped it over his arm? "Our court wizard needs an able man – or mer- to do the jarl a great service. Surely with all this talk of dragons, you'd be happy to assist. Helgen is only a day or so from Riverwood. You see?" No, no, he didn't see. He was just a woodcutter who liked to occasionally shoot arrows at deer and other tasty animals. Faendal hadn't worked a bounty in a long, long time – not since he'd settled here, settled into Riverwood and its peaceful rhythm beside the stream.

Proventus was still talking. "Our court wizard has been looking for an able body – er, individual to take care of a small, but well-rewarded task -"

"Wait, no, I was just here as a messenger, I don't even -"

"- Ah here he is. Master Secret-Fire!" Secret-Fire? What kind of stupid name is "Secret-Fire"?

"- manage to take down an elk half the time, really, so why -" The mage in question looked up from his table. By the looks of things, the man spent most of his time in these rooms – obviously a magical laboratory of some sort, with alchemical ingredients and other magic-related sundries dotting the room generously. Faendal could tell he was the sort of man to put things down wherever he was when something else happened to catch his eye; the room was that kind of cluttered. Just looking at it all made him dizzy.

"Another one?" Faendal couldn't see the man's expression beneath his hood, but his tone was unimpressed.

"Uh, 'another one'? What do you mean, 'another one'?" Proventus cut in, voice slicker than grease in a pan.

"Master Secret-Fire simply meant that many are currently seeking this particular bounty-"

"The other ones died." The wizard shrugged, as though to say, too bad, so sad. Proventus glared.

"- and I am sure you have everything well in-hand, Farengar. Good evening to you both." The old steward stalked out, back straight, the very image of a well-miffed Imperial courtier. There was a pause.

"There's been some sort of mistake. I'm just the courier." Faendal started to back away, only belatedly realizing that "Farengar Secret-Fire" was circling him in the slow, assessing way of a farmer at the pig market. "So you see, I'll be...going...now..."
"You might do."

"Er, no, I -"

"You look sneaky enough. The other ones tried the direct approach, you see. It didn't work. But you. You look light on your feet."

"...No." The wizard continued as though he hadn't heard.

"There is an old ruin north of Riverwood called Bleak Falls Barrows..."

Faendal shut his eyes. There was no way he was going to do this. Absolutely not. Faendal did not go grave-robbing at the whims of some – some – oily old steward and his mage.

"...quite simple, really, all you need is to sneak inside the bandit hideout and..."

"I'm not your errand boy. I don't care what your bounty is, and you have the wrong mer." Secret-Fire cocked his head and looked at him – really looked at him – for the first time. Faendal's nerves began to hum danger danger danger.

It was then that he noticed Secret-Fire was smiling beneath the hood. Smiling! What was wrong with these people?

With an inner groan, Faendal braced himself for an argument. Damnable courtiers. Faendal would take a hundred years of Riverwood over a day of city intrigue any day.

And by Y'ffre's green boughs, next time he was going to go hide out in the forest until they sent that idiot Sven!


Whiterun lay behind him, slumbering with the sun. Dawn was hours away and the air was cool, scented sharply with the smell of mountain flowers and pine.

He had spent far too much time in that city.

In the end, he had refused. The wizard hadn't seemed too put out – the man was as blasé as they came – shrugging off the strongly worded refusal like water rolling off an oilskin cloak. "Come by again if you change your mind," he'd said, and that had been that.

Proventus had given him the evil eye on his way out, though.

Faendal hadn't meant to tarry for days. He'd left Dragonsreach with the intention of visiting Anoriath – just to say hello, really – and to rest and retire at the Huntsman. He would head back to Riverwood before dawn.

Or so he'd thought.

It had started well enough. He'd said hello to Anoriath, and bought some salt and traveler's jerky for the road. At some point, Anoriath had sweet-talked him into taking a look at a new batch of arrows Elrindir had fletched, which led to Faendal deciding he actually did need some more arrows, after all, which lead to, "Why Faendal, there's plenty more at the Huntsmen, how about we go down together once I close up here, I could use a hand," which lead to, of course, Faendal dutifully helping his friend close down shop and carting it all back to the tavern.

As it turned out, Elrindir had been bored out of his mind; simple conversation turned into commiseration (mostly a string of the most alarming abuse at the fine, noble courtiers of Dragonsreach), and, as the hour grew long, their thoughts turned to supper. The elder huntsman had set a delicious meal of venison stew, grilled leeks, and baked potatoes, topped off with a crisp apple pie from the Mare,and then...

...the drinking games. By Sanguine's merry tits, the drinking games.

It had started well enough, just the bottles of mead Elrindir had stocked on his shelves. But two bottles in, the rather terrifying dunmer sellsword – Jenassa, if he remembered correctly – had retired to her rooms, and Anoriath had decreed they ought to try the good stuff, staggering down into the cellar and bringing up, of all things, fermented milk with elk blood, a bosmeri treat Faendal hadn't had since...well, since before he'd set foot in Skyrim.

It was just as good as he remembered.

A good night, followed by an absolutely wretched morning; Faendal and his hosts had been indisposed, laying exactly where they had fallen the night before with the shutters closed. Jenassa came down at some point in the morning, sadistically amused at the sight of three bosmer huntsmen laid out on the tavern floor like green striplings. She'd been deliberately loud, Faendal was certain.

"My, how delightfully amusing. And pathetic." Jenassa stomped – stomped, literally, because the dunmer had the lightest feet of all of them, it was clearly deliberate- sending spikes of agony through Faendal's skull until Elrindir had hollered from his position on the floor, "We're not open today, go away!"

Jenassa had burst out laughing. "I live here." She'd wandered over to where the older sibling lay prone, prodding him with a booted foot. Elrindir had only whimpered, curling into a tight ball of misery.

"Jenassa..."

Anoriath's voice had warbled unsteadily, though his demand had been clear. "Arcadia's. Hair-of-horse remedy. Please."

The sellsword had only tutted, the mild sound striking Faendal's eardrums like arrows on a tin roof. "Are you hiring me to fetch something from Arcadia's, Anoriath?" By Y'ffre.

"Jenassa. Please." Elrindir had sounded absolutely wretched. "Discount for the next night if you go."

"My hiring price is five hundred septims, Elrindir." She had actually sounded insulted.

"Jenassa!"

The bargaining had continued, and it was all Faendal could do to tuck his aching head beneath his arms and whimper.

In the end, she had agreed. The mer was ruthless – she'd gotten free nights at the Huntsman until her half her hiring price had been met, and they'd reimbursed her for the potions. What a bloody terror.

And that was why Faendal was out here now, more than an hour out of Whiterun, stalking a bull and his harem in the pre-dawn dark. Anoriath was a shapeless shadow crouching uphill amidst the brush with the absolute patience of a master hunter; Faendal watched from his position behind the rocks, sheltered beneath the low-hanging boughs of a leaning pine that sheltered him from the keen eyes of their prey.

It hadn't just been that the brothers had missed a day of work; Faendal hadn't had the coin to cover his portion of the potions, either. And while neither brother had seemed to particularly care, it hadn't sat well with him to leave them like that. It simply wasn't Faendal's way.

And so here he was, hunting with Anoriath. In truth, Faendal didn't even mind it. It had been far too long since he'd gone hunting with a fellow bosmer; he'd missed it more than he'd realized. It wasn't the same, hunting alone, and Nords – well. Nords. They had a funny way of hunting, which involved a lot of yelling and general chaos. And spears. Nords were very fond of their spears.

Anoriath raised a hand and signaled. Faendal uncoiled from his position behind the rock, readying his bow. He'd get one shot, two at most. If the bull survived that, well...

He'd have to rely on his partner to sort that out, preferably before he was pulverized by fifty stones of furious elk.

Anoriath was out of sight behind the hill, using the bushes as cover as he moved stealthily in the dark. Well out of sight, he bugled.

There was a trick to hunting elk during the rut, namely, covering oneself in cow urine and bugling like a rival. Anoriath, Faendal had to admit, had an excellent bugle. He'd carved that horn himself, he'd said, and Faendal had been well impressed with the work. There was no telling the difference between a call from the horn and a call from a bull.

The results were predictable.

The bull came huffing from the herd of cows and calves, bugling frantically as he sought out his audacious rival. Faendal could hear the aggravated pants from his position behind the rock; the bull moved closer, calling out another challenge. From behind the hill, Anoriath obliged with an answer.

Ten yards. Eight. Five yards. Come on. Walk by the rock. Just a big further. That's right...

The bull stopped, swaying his head to and fro as though making a decision. The herd was behind him now, grazing peacefully, the low murmur of elk voices rumbling over the plain.

The bull huffed, snorted once, twice, shook his massive head and began to walk away.

No!

Anoriath bugled again, sudden and strident, far closer than he had been before. Faendal did not startle. Hunter's instinct settled over him like a well-worn cloak. He could smell the bull now, reeking of mud and musk as it snuffled closer, suspicious and keen. Black eyes peered from beneath dark fringed lashes from within a massive head; this one was a king, stately with wide set antlers that could gore a mer even as they caught him on the branches and tossed him, like a rag doll.

A beautiful creature, well worthy of the hunt.

The bull moved well, with the fluid grace of a truly healthy animal. Faendal watched it come closer, watched the wide nostrils flare as it registered the scent of a cow – and Anoriath bugled again, just in time to aggravate the bull into an all out dash past the rock.

Faendal drew back his bow as he breathed. He could see the large black eyes of the bull as it passed him, gleaming wetly beneath the lights of Jone and Jode.

He released.

The first arrow took the bull in the eye. He screamed, sounding shockingly like a mer, thrashing wildly as though to dislodge the deadly bit of wood and metal lodged inside it's skull. The second arrow went wide, striking the quivering, jerking haunches instead of the throat. Faendal cursed, drew again, though by now the bull was running, shockingly fast for the blood that streamed like a banner from his wounds.

A third arrow took it in the throat. Anoriath.

The harem called out frantically, the herd racing away from their dethroned patriarch as he lay twitching on the plains of Whiterun. Faendal approached with his knife drawn, the edge sharp with mercy.

Above them, Jone and Jode faded as the sky bloomed violet with the rising sun.


It had taken most of the morning to dress the elk. Bosmeri hunters were particular about their kills, pact or no pact; waste did not exist. Aside from the prized meat, hide, and antlers, they had set aside the bones, guts, hooves, and blood, working until the sun grew hot on their backs. The two hunters stripped down and wadded into the White River. The water was freezing; the autumn sun was not enough to warm the fast-moving current.

Faendal scrubbed dutiful with sand and silt, shivering. "Bet you wish you could cast destruction spells right about now." Anoriath grinned through chattering teeth. "I once knew a mage back in Valenwood. Had the best tricks on the march. In bed too, come to think of it." Faendal rolled his eyes.

"Probably invented them just to be rid of your stink."

Anoriath laughed. "Probably! But speaking of mages..." Faendal bit back a groan, suddenly intent on pounding his bloody shirt against the rocks. "You tell her yet?"

"You said you were too drunk to remember that." Faendal grunted with effort as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn spot at the edge of his sleeve.

"I was too drunk to remember saying I was too drunk to remember that." Faendal didn't have to look to know the smile stretched over his fellow huntsman's face would be all innocent benevolence. Go kiss a skeever's ass.

"And she's not a mage, she's a merchant. A good one." Anoriath rolled his eyes.

"...And there wasn't even a scar once she was done!" The damnable mer had forced his voice into a falsetto approximation of Faendal's . He grimaced, violently wringing his shirt and slapping it against the broadside of a rock with more force than strictly necessary. Anoriath rolled his wet shirt as though to wring it; Faendal relearned his lesson on turning his back on his friend when the end of said wet shirt smacked into the back of his head with a heavy thwack.

"Anoriath!"

"Faendal!" His voice was still that infuriating falsetto.

"Act your age, you skeever's ass!" Anoriath just laughed.

"I am!"

"Of all the-!" Faendal used both arms to drench the other elf with a wave of cold water. Anoriath, of course, gave as good as he got.

They clambered out once they couldn't feel their toes, laying out their clothes on the sun-baked rocks to dry. "But seriously," Anoriath was like a dog worrying a bone. "You should just tell her. You can't treat humans like mer, Faendal. They don't have the patience." Faendal just sighed.

"Look, forget I said anything, okay? I mean, I have a plan and all, so..."

"A plan and all? Right. Does this plan involve waiting until she's old and gray? Because that happens way faster for humans. Wait a few decades and -" he snapped his fingers, "- just like that. Old and ready for the grave."

"Anoriath!"

"Well, it's true. And let me ask you: is that bard fellow waiting?" Faendal was silent. "See? Thought so. My suggestion? Start with flowers, skip the poetry, and work your way up from there."

"Oh, shut up, you horse's ass."

"You'll thank me one day."

Once the hottest hours had passed, Anoriath circled back for the mare and cart he'd had prepared at the stables. She was a brave, sweet thing, obedient though the smell of blood made her snort and shy against her harness.

All in all, it was a good haul: fifty stones of elk, and three hares that had wandered into their traps.

They parted ways on the road. "May the Green guide you and keep you." They clasped their hands tightly, palm to palm, elbow to elbow, before stepping away. "Remember what I said. Flowers. Skip the poetry, you're hopeless."

"Anoriath." The mer just laughed, raising his hand in farewell before leading the mare down the road. Faendal hefted his pack – now heavier with a rabbit and a haunch of meat and bone – and began the long walk home.


It was dark by the time he saw Riverwood in the distance. A feeling of foreboding had rolled in with the clouds, and he'd lost time taking the long way through the woods in an effort to avoid fellow travelers on the road. He could not explain his sense of unease, but reasoned that with the events at Helgen and the encroaching civil war, traveling beneath the trees was only sensible.

In truth he had fully expected the sight of the sleepy little village to settle his heart; he was disappointed when the ill ease persisted.

What is wrong with me, he wondered, jumping at the slightest shadow?

He paused at the crossroads. All he had to do was take the road south. Then he would enter Riverwood proper, where he would find his own modest home and simple bed. It was small and humble, but it was his own. He would rest, and take Gerder the rabbit in the morning as an apology for his tardy self. There was enough elk bone to keep him busy making arrows for weeks.

Bleak Falls Barrow sat in the distance, a dark, wide spider squatting against a web of stars.

His feet were moving before he'd even realized it. I'm not going in, he thought to himself. And yet, strangely, he felt compelled to look at it; he wanted to look at that ugly thing in his backyard that had been taking lives for months.

Just half an hour, he thought. He'd go up the slope and take a look, then walk home and straight to bed.

The ground was just starting to show signs of snow when he heard her scream.

At first he was sure he was dreaming; he'd gone home to bed and he was dreaming now. It could not be that voice. It could not be her; she was in the Riverwood Trader still, slumbering in her loft beneath strong wooden beams and a dream-warding charm made of birds' bones and raven feathers.

It could not be her.

Faendal slunk into the trees. He unslung his unwieldy pack of meats and drew his bow. He kept an arrow in hand, adjusted his quiver for easy access. Then he crouched low, fading into the night-dark shadows beneath the heavy boughs of Skyrim's sturdy trees.

The hunter skirted the treeline, keeping his eyes on the road. If there was one good thing to be said about the Empire, it was that they knew how to build roads. The cobblestones were distinctively wide, polished by years of wear; they gleamed beneath the light of the moons.

There. There was a woman on the road. He could not see details in the wan light, but he knew that proud bearing, that sweet, fluting voice.

Camilla was holding the wolves at bay with a dagger and a fistful of fire.

"Don't think I won't do it!" Her voice was strident, fearless. "I'll light you on fire, you flea-bitten mutts! Just come here and try to bite me!"

The next few moments were instinct born of decades of practice. There were only two; they looked old, haggard, and one had a limp and a missing ear. The archer locked his sights on the scrapper – it looked younger, was snarling around a mouthful of teeth as it danced away from the flashing flames crackling around her fist – and sent an arrow through the back of its skull.

The wolf never knew what hit it. It went down without a whimper, body twitching; the elder whirled, faster than he'd expected from a raggedy veteran with a limp.

It didn't matter how fast it was. An arrow was always faster.

The wolf sighted him not with his eyes but with his nose; Faendal could see its nostrils flare as it charged, bearing down on him with the mindless rage of the hopeless and hungry. It's snarling maw was missing teeth – big, black gaps where there should have been a gleam of ivory – and Faendal released two arrows in quick succession, both finding its target inside the angry wide mouth.

And then it was done, over in the span of three heartbeats. Camilla turned to the trees, flames swirling bright around her fist as she called out. "Who's there? Come out where I can see you, or I'll set the trees on fire!" Well, that would be unfortunate for everyone involved. Faendal obliged her, slinging his bow behind his back as he did.

"It's me. Faendal."

"Faendal!" Camilla was a blur. Before he could speak – before he could think to speak – her arms were around his waist in a hard hug, her face pressed up against his chest.

It took his breath away.

All too soon, she pulled away. Up close, he could see her face, could see the sun in her smile. "Faendal! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes. It's so good to see you!" He was grinning like an idiot; he could feel it, could feel the stretch of the muscles in his face.

"Ah...it's...good to see you too." Dolt. Idiot. Say something sensible. Ask her why she's here.

"Thanks for your help! Though..." she eyed the dead wolves. "I could have handled it. I think."

"With a novice fire spell and a dagger?" Oh. No. He didn't just...Sweet Mara. He felt his face flush, the heat running to the tips of his ears. He hadn't meant to sound like that. He hadn't. Why was he such an ass? "I mean – that is – I meant to say -" Camilla laughed. For a moment he panicked, thinking she was laughing at him, then realized that this was infinitely preferable to her anger.

"No, you're right." Camilla ran a hand over her face, letting out a gusty sigh. "I should have brought a sword, I think. Not just this little one -" She patted her sheathed dagger, "-here."

"Right. I mean, people don't really hunt wolves with daggers. Er, at least, I always try it was a bow. And arrow. Arrows. Um." Ass. Camilla laughed again.

"Oh, I wasn't out here to hunt. Of course not. I was actually, ah..." she trailed off with a sudden nervous laugh. "Well, I wasn't planning on being spotted by anyone. Didn't count on the wildlife, though. And I guess I shouldn't have taken the road either, huh? By the Nine, I didn't think this through."

"Right. So...we should head back then." Camilla blinked, then shrugged as though to shed whatever thought she'd been having before he spoke.

"What? Oh. Well, yes, I suppose you'd want to go home, huh? You were on the road all day, I'm guessing." She smiled at him again, bright and sweet as summer honey. "Thank you Faendal." And then she started to walk away. What ?

"Wait, Camilla, wait-wait – what – where are you going? Why are you out here?" He saw now that she was wearing a pale blue apprentice robe – the very same one that hung on the pegs behind the counter at the Riverwood Trader. She had a satchel belted to her waist and a small travel bag slung over her shoulder.

A horrible suspicion began to form in his mind.

"Camilla, where are you going?" She turned to look at him, walking backwards.

"Where? Oh. Up there." She pointed. "I'm going up to Bleak Falls Barrows."

Sweet Boethiah's Daedric tits.

Faendal was beginning to really hate his life.

A/N: So Google tells me that 700lbs is about 50 stones. Hurray for the internets!

With that said, thanks for everyone who's reviewed thus far. I deeply appreciate it! And yes, we'll be getting to the meat of the story...soon. This is just set-up.

Expect a rewritten version of Chapter 2 (The Restless Wolf/The Pale) sometime in the next two weeks, though I haven't decided if I'll pound out the next chapter before or after said update.

Next chapter: Sigrid decides the Valerius clan is full of idiots, Hadvar hobbles around a lot, and our supposed heroine picks a lot of flowers. Full of action! Intrigue! Gossiping housewives and awkward dinners! Yay!